


Light in Dark Spaces

by magpiespirit



Series: Nothing Left to Fall For [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bitterness, Cunnilingus, Heaven & Hell, It's Certainly Unhealthy, Light Bondage, Michael Has Control Issues, Michael Has No Genitalia, Michael Has a Love/Hate Relationship with the Human Form, Nonbinary Character, Other, Politics, Post-Betrayal, Recreating Trauma Instead of Dealing with It, Satan is a creep, Sort Of, Third Side, This Is Probably Dubcon, deadnaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22355482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpiespirit/pseuds/magpiespirit
Summary: It's research. Just finding out what the enemy wants and plans to do next. There's no ulterior motive here, and running into each other is just a coincidence.Really.(Michael, the Lightbringer, and a place neither of Heaven nor of Hell.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (implied), Michael/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Series: Nothing Left to Fall For [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609231
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Light in Dark Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> How does one tag for a ship between two agender beings, one of whom remains agender and the other who mostly presents either male or monstrous? I clicked "other." Not sure if that's correct.
> 
> I'm sorry to anyone who wanted something of substance in the followup to my prior Michael piece. It's quite porny; as it turns out, Michael and Satan wanted to be terrifying together. Also, because it's Satan and Michael, consent is more conceptual, and I don't condone this kind of thing. I don't care for unhealthy relationships, and I've never actually felt like this or had this mentality before, but apparently I've decided lean into the side of me that loves horror fiction. Sorry. Consider this a content warning and please double-check the tags.

It’s information-gathering. That’s what you told them, and that’s what you’re doing — you’ve had the most contact with _the other side_ of any loyal agent, and you know how to conduct yourself. It’s routine; there are forms to fill out, code to use, interrogation techniques you’ve never needed to test. (The humans tested it for you, but that’s not very scientifically rigorous. Different species, and all.)

You frown at the building. It’s rundown, and it still smells the same; Los Angeles has changed dramatically since the last time you were forced to come here, but this little human food vendor on Florence Avenue still _feels_ the same. It shouldn’t be a surprise. This is the only place on Earth that belongs to neither Heaven nor Hell. It’s the only true neutral ground, and the only place where the surveillance can’t reach.

Lucifer sits at a table, some human slop in front of him. He’s not eating it, so it’s likely a prop, but he might simply be waiting for you to join him so he can disgust you. It would be just like him to inconvenience himself for the greater good of bad, sadist that he is. You plant yourself across from him on a metal-grate chair, place your hands on the table as a gesture of goodwill, and say, “Hello again.”

“Michael,” he purrs, pretending to be delighted to see you. Or perhaps he _is_ delighted. You’re not privy to the inner workings of the devil’s mind, and you’re happy to be kept out of that particular loop. His mouth lifts up in a small smile, not quite a smirk but close enough to count. “What a pleasure.”

Not that you agree, but if you _did,_ it would be unfair that he’s got the freedom to say so. It’s not exactly a pleasure to _you —_ more of a sweet pain. You don’t enjoy seeing Lucifer as he is now, but it’s becoming harder and harder to stay away, because he reminds you of Lucifer as he _used_ to be, before he rebelled, before he ruined everything. Angels don’t forget things, and you don’t always experience time in a linear fashion. His betrayal was over six millennia ago, and it’s also happening now, but mostly it happened last year, and it hurts, and _you can’t stop._

“Maybe to you,” you say coolly, your smile at an impersonal setting. It’s the smile you wear when you have to deal with tasks that are not within your purview, or you have to talk to people you don’t like. 

“That’s what matters, darling.”

Egotistical prick. You tap your fingers on the table in lieu of reaching out and strangling him where he sits and ask, “What did you want?”

“I’m afraid it’s political, not personal. We need to discuss the issue of the “third side.” Don’t bother to deny it, I know that look, and I know a liar when I see one, so save yourself some embarrassment — our rogues are causing trouble. We need options,” he says.

You _were_ going to deny knowledge of the little quiet rebellion led by Aziraphale and his pet serpent. It’s abhorrent, and there’s _nothing to be done._ You can’t convince Gabriel to choose a consequence for Uriel for associating with them, not when she’s regaining her Grace so quickly, and restricting other angels to Heaven will only cause contention. Younger angels are curious and they weren’t around for the War, to see what happens when an angel disobeys. And _worse,_ angels who ask a certain kind of question have no consequences at all, natural or otherwise. God has no opinion, it seems.

You know you are on the right side. Or at least, you know that you are not on the wrong one. But you don’t know where the Almighty stands on this matter, and until you do, you’re reluctant to share intelligence with your old friend and bitter enemy. Still, he has a point, so you nod in acquiescence. “They are causing trouble for both sides. Spreading their tall tales. Our agents haven’t been able to learn how they managed their immunity, but it does not bode well for either of our armies if it is repeatable. We can’t do anything to the original two without violating the nonaggression treaties we were forced to sign, but it’s wise to crack down on those who might join them.”

Uriel. _Raphael._ A dozen from the lower choirs at _least._ And who knows how many demons would do anything to escape Hell? This should never have happened. Aziraphale and his pet serpent did almost nothing in the grand scheme of things; Heaven and Hell were too hasty in trying to punish them for treason. It only caused a spectacle, and with a spectacle always comes a barrage of difficult questions.

(If Aziraphale is a traitor, why can’t he die?)

(If an angel and a demon are allowed to fraternize, has the Almighty disbanded Her army?)

(Why is that particular angel so powerful when the rest of us have to ration our miracles?)

(Why? Why? _Why?)_

“We _could_ kill them — but it would send the wrong message. It would make our people think we _fear_ this “third side.” I think we ought to incentivize, don’t you? Instead of being angry when they leave, give them reasons to stay. After all…” He pointedly meets your eyes. “They are _our_ people.”

“Our people, yours and mine, on opposite sides,” you reply sharply. 

“Of course, of course. You’ve made it clear that you have no interest in leading my armies, Michael. We’re simply strategizing here, until we understand what we’re dealing with. There’s never been anything like this. It’s my fault.” He leans on his elbow, massaging between his brows with one hand. “I chose the wrong agent. I thought it would force him to leave his silly diversions behind.”

“Diversions?”

“Well, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he had attachments on Earth, though the specifics eluded us. But he was good at his job, nonetheless, so we let him do the grunt work on the ground floor that nobody else wanted to do, and everyone reaped the benefits. The Inquisition — _genius._ Imagine the depths of evil he could have aspired to had he not been so enamored with this place. Delivering my child was a chance to leave that all behind, to free him from the chains of affection, but he couldn’t even get that right.”

He is, you think, a little like Gabriel in this way — willing to look the other way as long as the job gets done, so sure that he has everything under control. Lucifer is correct: Armageddon was a problem from the top-down, a failure of leadership on both sides. Gabriel’s intentional lack of oversight paved the way for Aziraphale’s betrayal. That’s no way to rule. And nobody ought to need _incentive_ to do the right thing. If you were in charge…

(But you’re not.)

“You disagree with my proposal,” he notes, “don’t you?”

It’s a trick. He’s reading your feelings, your reactions, your desires. That’s what the devil does. You smile at him and pretend it isn’t unnerving. “Of course I do. Incentivizing loyalty is cheap. All the other side has to do is offer something better. I think we all got too lenient. My side started _forgiving_ angels after that business with the Nephilim, and your side has too much infighting to be a cohesive unit. The only way to keep Heaven strong, in my opinion, is to put the fear of God back into them, and for _you_ to keep your people under control. We can’t afford to get complacent.”

“Darling, you _are_ a bloodthirsty creature, aren’t you? Perfect to lead an army, but that’s not a long-term solution.”

You purse your lips and tell him, “The long-term solution is to win, Lucifer.”

He leans forward across the table, puts a thumb delicately on your lower lip, and says gently, “If you call me that again, I will dismantle your incorporation piece by piece until the Divine is revealed, and then I will peel little bits of that off and feed them to a Hellhound.”

You grasp his wrist, wind your tongue around the tip of his thumb, and nibble before only _just_ pulling away, noting the way his eyes follow your mouth. Maybe it’s more than a name to him. “You could try, but I’d like to stick to our nonaggression treaty for now. I’ll call you Satan, if that’s really what you call yourself now.”

“You could call me Pollyanna for all I care; I just don’t want you to call me by a name She gave me. I remade myself in my own image, and I am the Accuser. The Adversary. Satan is _what_ I am. Anything else is irrelevant.”

You wonder if other demons are as proud of their fall as he is, or if it’s unique to him. It might be worth gathering information. If demons are unsatisfied with how things shook out, they might be willing to switch sides — not to Heaven, that’s impossible, but you might be able to strongarm a nonaggression treaty out of the Third Side _as a unit_ (rather than just Aziraphale and his demon) and defeat Hell when their numbers are low. 

“You weren’t always _my_ adversary,” you murmur, the edges of your lips brushing against the pad of his thumb. It’s funny, the things you’re aware of. There’s the cheap lighting and the myriad sensations in this incorporation’s orbicularis oris and the odd startled look on his face as your words kiss his flesh. “Once, you were my friend. The most beautiful angel in all of Heaven. A brilliant mind we were genuinely sorry to lose.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, isn’t it? I loved you like you loved God, and She was so jealous She _changed you.”_

“That is _not_ how it was,” you tell him, voice so low it could reasonably be called a whisper, and you dig your nails into his wrist hard enough to draw blood.

His eyelids flutter, just for a moment, and he says, “Oh, _yes._ That’s it, Michael, you _should_ be angry. You _should_ be furious. It should be so potent these humans would _drown_ in it.”

That’s what he wants, isn’t it? To bring you down to his level, to drag you to Hell along with him? Of course you’ve felt Wrath so deep you can taste it purple and pulsing at the back of your throat, _every_ angel has. It’s not a design flaw, it’s an inherent feature. _The Accuser_ can’t understand that, how could he? He was always so self-righteous in his rage, so self-involved. His cause was never a higher Cause, so he doesn’t know the difference. You believe in Her, and in Her rightness — in _your_ rightness, as the absence of new orders must be a clear and firm statement that nothing has changed.

 ~~If She is wrong, then She violated you. If She is right, then~~ She gave you a gift.

You’re angry at him, not at Her. It’s his fault. You will _not_ allow him this victory, or any victory at all. Not even on this hidden, neutral ground. “Perhaps I just wanted to hurt you. _Darling.”_

“I won’t stop you if you really think you _can_ — what are these incorporations for, if not to be used? Go on, amuse me. You can’t smite me here, but I can think of a hundred things offhand you might do to make me _scream.”_

You’ve never read the humans’ holy books, but you do know what they left out. A society with limited understanding of celestial existence, nevermind celestial _politics,_ would tell a bedtime story: a simplistic variation of events that covered the First War. The truth is less simple. You are Michael the Archangel, and he is Satan, the devil, but before, you were Lucifer-and-Michael, and together you helped shape the universe. Humans function so well because you thought up the autonomic nervous system together. He painted your skin with stardust, the first extraneous adornments in existence, and God smiled. 

In a way, you were like children. In another, you most certainly were _not._ You hate him for taking that away from you. For changing and going where you couldn’t follow. For taking sweet innocent angels with him. You’re not stupid enough to think he’d have stopped if you had taken his hand instead of cast him out, but you could have. He offered. Bleeding and cracked and oozing off the edge, he still wanted to take you down with him. He just _can’t bear_ to not be the most beautiful thing in the room. 

Oh.

_Oh._

The great tempter can be tempted himself, by _you._

“It would be a shame if I left here alone,” you say, “and we never found out, wouldn’t it?”

You let his wrist go and slip out of your chair, tugging at your suit jacket once to straighten it, before walking outside with your head held high. The nice thing about being an angel is that nobody notices you when you don’t want them to. You’re not invisible, they just all miraculously have other things to notice, other things to think about. Nobody wonders about the person who came in and didn’t order any food, made a patron bleed, and left. Nobody will wonder about the person standing stock-still next to the off-white back wall, either. This is, you know, a dangerous game. Neutral ground only extends so far from the walls and you don’t know the extent of the devil’s power. 

What you know is that he took yours. What you know is that he tried to take _Hers._ What you know is that you hate him so much _because_ he was your friend. You got too close and he scorched you with the chains you put him in. Why _shouldn’t_ you make him feel what you feel? Every day, an agony, a _missing piece —_ you were _cut off,_ not just from your dear friend, but from the rest of Heaven, too. Her favor threaded through your soul and broke the bonds you had forged with _anyone._ You’ve been alone for _so long…_

And it is all his fault.

When he strolls out the door a few moments later, he seems impossibly tall, although your physical incorporations are within three inches of each other. There are certain things about celestial beings that cannot be contained; he will _always_ seem taller than he is, a largeness written into the long, lean lines of whatever body he’s wearing (and he’ll always choose one that looks long and lean, because it’s an intimidating build: not so large as to advertise strength, but not so thin as to advertise weakness, agility, _flexibility,_ and a height that suggests an advantage regardless). You know that his true form is astoundingly ugly. You can catch a glimpse of it beyond the physical veil, if you try, if you don’t mind the burn in these temporary retinas. But it’s only ugly in the sense that it’s bipedal and behorned and _fixed._ He only has the two eyes — he lost his Vision when he fell, all demons lost their gifts of Grace when they fell — which, frankly, you’ve always found to be a bit weird-looking. It’s strange, though. As much as he’s changed, as ugly as he is, he still... _feels_ similar.

Deep down, he is still Lucifer, and you’re not sure whether you want to nurture that spark or snuff it out completely. It’s your duty as an angel of the Lord to do the second. It’s your unseemly sentiment that makes you yearn for the opportunity to do the first. You can’t do either, in any case — not here on neutral ground, _especially_ not without violating the tentative nonaggression treaty. You _hate_ politics. Gabriel adores them, and Lucifer was the first politician, false promises and all.

“You’re still here,” he says, feigning surprise. 

You do not respond verbally, instead choosing to back him against the grimy wall. Every place you touch blooms with sterile cleanliness, unbidden miracles you genuinely can’t control, and you wonder as you press your lips against the dip of his throat if your touch cleans him, if it _burns_ him, if that’s something you want. You run your hands down his arms to interlock your fingers with his, taking, _taking._ He’s taken enough from you. It’s time you got something back.

Kiss — laryngeal prominence. Humans colloquially call this the Adam’s apple, but its design predates Adam. It’s aesthetic, not functional. 

Kiss — mandible. Strongest bone in the face. You wonder how easy it would be to break his.

Kiss — _orbicularis oris._ Your original target. His lips are his own design, strange, thin drags of flesh more suited to somber expressions. You bite the lower one, because you want to, because it’s there and because it makes him clench his fists around yours, let out an obscene sound that resonates in the air around you. It’s a sort of intimate moan that doesn’t belong on your lips, but you take it from him anyway, sipping it into your mouth. Like the wall behind him, it transforms, transcends, from filth into something else. Yours.

His trousers are a funny, complicated contraption that might bother you if you couldn’t work miracles, but you can. With a thought, he’s wearing no clothes at all, bared to the world — the tiny portion of it left open, anyway, which isn’t much. Your wards are strong enough to repel all but other Archangels and perhaps Princes of Hell. You were a Seraph, once, before Lucifer’s tragic, _pointless_ war made redistribution necessary and forced God to add to your base function. You still have that power at your disposal. And you use it, quickly and without consideration, to lock your target in place.

Lucifer, up against the filthy wall, arms spread like wings in flight. He never lost his wings. You’d love to turn him around, shove him down, squash his face against the gravel, pluck him bare. But there is a small, pulsing piece of you that knows the devil is your failure. You did not act against him in time. You did not strike him down when you had the chance. You cast him out, forced him to fall from Heaven, but you did not kill him. His wings aren’t yours to take; perhaps back then, but not anymore.

“My-”

“Shut your vile mouth, demon,” you order, dropping to your knees. The ground beneath you, once a dirty mix of gravel and broken glass, molds itself to your legs, a soft, clean, spongy texture that will leave no residue. You couldn’t keep it from happening if you _tried,_ and you’d never bother to try. Hell is dirty because cleanliness is next to Godliness.

It is no effort at all to lift him up, his legs falling open before you to allow you access to his smooth, nut-brown labia, already gleaming like wet polished sunstone — from natural lubrication or some unholy demonic variant of a miracle, you don’t know _or care —_ and you run your fingers over the pale skin over his ilium, around to dig your nails into the flesh around his sacral spine. The way he reacts...you could spend a thousand years finding new ways to make him mewl and fail to arch like that, digging shoulders and thoracic vertebrae into the unforgiving wall made by inferior _human_ hands, his pelvis perfectly positioned for you to get his knees on your shoulders. 

You know he’s getting something specific out of this. It may be the exact same thing you’re getting out of it. He would be kicking like anything if he didn’t want you, and you didn’t miraculously seal his mouth. This is the point at which you, the Archangel Michael, should walk away. No, you should turn tail and _fly_ away, as fast as you can. If the devil wants a thing, you _shouldn’t._

But Heaven and Hell don’t exist here, and you’re owed something, and it’s past time you got it.

You look up at him looking down at you, the long up-and-to-the-side stretch of his arms forcing his head into a lolling droop. His smile is _infuriating,_ an encouragement — goading you into this, knowing you will, and _he’s right —_ you turn your head slightly to the right without breaking eye contact and sink your teeth into his thigh, drag your tongue down the curve of his sartorius, bite down again viciously.

Because you want to.

Because it makes him fall into your arms heavy and loose like he should be.

Because you _can._

If you waited for him to beg, you’d wait forever. You’re both patient and competitive and you could probably stay here, playing chicken like this, for days, but why bother? You have his arms miraculously secured to the wall and his long, lovely legs over your shoulders. You can take what you want, over and over, until you’re done with him or he begs you to _stop._

(Wouldn’t that be _heady._ The Lightbringer, praying for relief, like he should have all those millennia ago.)

You drag soft, careful knuckles along the edges of his outer labia, a careful massage that will work inward. You helped design these vessels; you can name every piece in every language known to humankind, and three that would hurt or kill humankind to try to _comprehend._ You know how bodies work, how sensitive they can be. And you know this form in particular, because it is Lucifer’s favored form; it’s older than linear time, and you used it to explore and experiment both systemically and regionally. 

(Clinical note: you must find out how he managed to keep this form in his heart when he lost everything else. File away for later review.)

A sigh. An ineffective flex of the hands. You watch the tendons in his wrists and neck stand out so beautifully as he pretends not to strain against your miracle, as you stroke inward along the tracks of his inner labia, coming to a rounded point _just above_ his prepuce but not quite touching. He tries to shift his hips, but your strength is supernatural, God-given, _far_ greater than his at this point in time, and you _burn_ at the small _unh_ born of another moan he’s failed to hold in.

You have no interest in driving him mad. He can get that at home, if he likes; it’s _Hell,_ after all. You just want to make him do things.

It’s ever-fascinating to watch the involuntary reactions of human bodies. Most angels (and probably demons, too) turn off certain physiological systems for the sake of convenience, but when the whole thing is wired up properly — working as a whole unit, the way it was designed, not augmented by miracles — it is spectacularly malleable. You can press on a nerve cluster and make him _shout,_ make another part of his body spasm. You can flick your tongue against his prepuce and _taste_ him. If you really wanted to make him squirm impatiently, you could drag your tongue along his perineum, but you don’t. 

His soft little mewling sounds as his head bangs against the wall might just be the closest he’ll ever get to rejoining any celestial chorus, and it’s your doing, your design: your lips close around the little teardrop of his clitoris, your tongue shifting the skin in a patternless parody of song. Your own chest heaves along with his, because you are doing this to him, taking this from him. You would lock him away and make him beg for forgiveness, for the absolution you both will always be denied. _You_ were never free. He doesn’t get to be either.

You suck and kiss in dots and dollops, taking, _taking,_ small noises turned large in his chest as you test and observe and repeat for optimal results. His pleasure is yours, his freedom is yours, _you_ get to decide what happens next. He may be above you by way of positioning, but he is beneath you in every way that matters. You do not relent: the harsher his breathing, the more quantifiable your success. His adductors _quake_ against your ears, squeezing, squeezing, his heels dig bruises into your latissimus dorsi, and your (entirely involuntary) response is to carve bloody trenches along his perfectly smooth, moonlight skin.

You’ll let him release, because that is the point of _taking,_ isn’t it, the allowance — reliving it all, making him fall fall fall. You would force him over the edge again and again _and again,_ had you the time, but you don’t. Someone will come looking. They may already be looking now.

He falls.

Lucifer, the Lightbringer, _falls_ under your command, and you can see Satan rippling below the surface. They were always one in the same, weren’t they? You’re a little surprised he _obeyed_ when you told him to shut his mouth, but now, panting and slick and eyes shining with brilliant light, _now_ he’ll surely have something to say. He always did. It was how he got followers: not through force, but through words. Pretty, pretty, _pretty_ words. Falsehoods. Oh, how you hate him for dirtying that beautiful mouth with his filthy lies.

“Oh, my love,” he sighs, reaching down and knuckling your cheek gently, right at the apple of it—

If he picked apart your binding before you even began, then he was never bound. You were never in control here. He just indulged you, because he could, because _why?_

You know why. You can’t think it. You drop his legs and watch him stand gracefully, catlike, no effort or escape involved; you focus on the quiver in his lower limbs so as to avoid adding insult to injury. He’s naked, and entirely unashamed of it. Of course. He doesn’t know shame as more than an academic curiosity.

“It’s funny,” he says, like he’s looking into your mind, “how the power goes to one’s head. Isn’t it? Pride is my great sin, Michael. I think you hate me so much because it’s yours, too.”

“I don’t hate you for your pride. I hate you for your betrayal,” you reply, honest for once. Why not? It’s not as though he can use it against you. He can’t betray you again if you don’t trust him.

“And I would do it again, of course, even if you led my armies and ruled by my side. That’s the difference between then and now. You and I are old enough to understand what we are.” He kneels in front of you, takes both cheeks in his hands. They’re longer than your face. It’s unsettling to have them unfurled like this, but you’re not going to be the one to bend. “You can’t say the same about God.”

“No, I can’t,” you admit, enjoying your inappropriate swell of satisfaction at his shudder. You _do_ have power over him, just not the kind you thought. Or the kind you want. “But then, She is immeasurable. Interminable.”

“Ineffable?”

 _“Don’t,”_ you snarl. That word is ruined. It’s Third Side propaganda now: Her unspoken Will can’t be interpreted or explained, so Heaven can’t be certain, so why not join up with the traitors who can’t die? “She wanted me to change, and you want me to fall. You both betrayed me.”

“And only I care what you want. Only I want you exactly as you are. I _don’t_ want you to fall, Michael, darling — I want you to rise. You deserve better than what they gave you.”

“Not a very good trick,” you say. You should run. You should have run a long time ago. You don’t move, because you want him to keep talking, keep this sick little charade going. 

He smiles. It’s one of those nasty, sadistic ones that make him almost unrecognizable. “That’s because we’re beyond tricks. I want you. I will have you.”

“Is that a _threat?”_

“Call it a prediction.” He stands, pulls you up with him, and waves a hand lazily. You both look like nothing ever happened; when you leave this place, the only reminders will be deep beneath your soulskin where nobody else can see. He traces your lips with one finger and pulls away before you can decide whether to tell him to stop. “Both our sides are hemorrhaging agents — not just underlings, but heavy hitters. Heaven’s lost Uriel; I’ve lost Dagon. You and I both know where their loyalties lie. You’ll have to choose between me and God again, but I’ll give you some intel for free: I don’t promise to be honest. I don’t promise not to hurt you. I don’t promise not to use you. I only promise _vengeance.”_

You’ll parrot the talking points, toe the party line. You always do, because you really, genuinely believe in it. And if the fire in your gut feels a little more focused — a little less agonizing — when he makes offers like this, well, that’s what he does. He’s the devil, and you’re the Archangel Michael. You already have everything you _need._ Any other little wants are only temptation. Once you leave this place, you can crush those, like you will crush Hell when the time finally comes. The next time Lucifer submits to you, it will be in his true form, with his last breath.

**Author's Note:**

> Benedict Cumberbatch plays Satan on the miniseries. I don't find him particularly attractive, but I know lots of people do, so I'm just...imagining that he's gorgeous, and describing his boring features as though they are not boring. Everyone has their own taste. I guess he's Michael's. Maybe he chose that body _because_ Michael likes the look, who knows.


End file.
